


Dòchas Flùrach

by kirschtrash



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jeanmarco Month 2018, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Magical Realism, POV Jean Kirstein, Witch Marco Bott, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 12:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirschtrash/pseuds/kirschtrash
Summary: In which Jean meets Marco Bodt: a humble wicca who shows him the world's magic - and the true power of hope.[JeanMarco Month 2018 Day 1: Flowers/Showers]





	Dòchas Flùrach

**Author's Note:**

> Starting off JM Month with an AU I've had in my mind for literally 2 years - hope you enjoy!
> 
> Here's my [Tumblr](http://kirschtrash.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kirschtrash?lang=en) just in case~

A soft breeze made the grass sway, making the green fields surrounding him dance to an unsung song. The forest to his east stood tall, sighing as the air ran over their leaves. Everything felt nostalgic, as if a gentle hand were bidding the world farewell.

He heard a voice from beside him. “The storm is finally gone.”

Yes. The sky was faded, perpetual, glowing a brilliant violet. There were still a few low hanging clouds scattered sparsely, but there was no rain. There was no denying it: the winds of change were here to stay.

 

Jean wished they never came. He wished it never stopped raining.

 

It had been a thing of the century, in most people’s eyes. How the world could suddenly decide to send showers of rain and stormy winds for a whole month without any forecast was beyond their comprehension. People gave it a plethora of nouns - the day of reckoning, a hoax, even a miracle.

For Jean, it was nothing significant. The world often failed to excite him in all of its apparent glory - sun, snow, wind or rain never fascinated him the way it did others. In that sense, Jean often felt like the outlier in the mass of statistics - as if he were watching everyone around him through a telescope. Maybe he had a missing piece within, or maybe the world was not made for him.

Though the rain did not fright or interest him, it did something else - something quite out of the ordinary.

In what order did the stars have to align once every hundred years to give Jean this opportunity: to stumble upon a mysterious cottage one random, rainy day just outside his city - only to befriend a wicca who went by the name Marco Bodt.

It all felt like an anomaly: something like magic existing in such a dull world. It was so surreal, so intriguing.

In fact, he always found a reason to visit this green-witch, who lived within the forest he had sworn to protect with potions, spells and the forces of nature. He definitely _felt_ like a force of nature all on his own, despite his humbling appearance: a young, freckled man in his twenties, sat in a wheelchair, with a smile that never left his lips. His hair was an unruly, black mess, and his round, gold-rimmed spectacles were too big on his face.

Jean never knew how someone could make everyone else seem so ordinary.

Maybe it was the way the wicca spoke of ancient magic and historic lore; how knowledgeable he was in the art, his syllables dripping with contagious excitement every time he discussed them with Jean over a cup of tea. Maybe it was the way Marco seemed to exude serenity; whenever the walls of his own home were too overbearing, Jean could find peace inside Marco’s little cottage. He could simply _be,_ without feeling the slightest bit of guilt.

Maybe it was the way Marco spoke of the world with so much respect, so much adoration - as if it deserved his attention. He would spend laborious hours hunched over his workstation, refusing to even lift his head up until he got his conjuration accurate. It was no case of perfectionism; he felt it his duty to help the Earth, as if he owed it everything. 

Jean still remembered one night vividly, when the two of them sat huddled before his fireplace (with a fire that did not sputter even in the rain). While watching the orange flames dance with magic, Jean noticed Marco’s fingers, and how they were thoroughly stained. He could have put the blame on some of the questionable ingredients he had used for one of his incantations - but the brighter splotches caught his attention. They looked a lot like burn marks.

That night, he had bitten the bullet at last: “Why do you love the world, even if it feels like it doesn’t care?”

Maybe Marco did not hear his venomous tone, or maybe he chose to ignore it. In either case, the wicca gave a simple answer: “Because... I know the world gives what the world gets - she’s beautiful that way: intricate, yet fair.”

“What about the people who get hurt for no reason - is that fair?”

“Well, no - but she can cure their hearts. She always does.”

Out of annoyance, confusion, desperation, he pressed on: “With _what_?”

He responded with a beam of bliss - a smile that felt like a ray of sunlight peeking through grey clouds. “With love. What else?”

 

Could the universe be so humble that it chose to let one insignificant person heal? Could something as arbitrary as love really fix the pain in people’s hearts? Could it find the missing piece in everyone?

As he met Marco’s eyes, he felt something settle inside the hole in his chest - something warm. For the first time in his life, he was compelled to believe in something so magical.

 

But of course, one day the storm gave way to silence. The rain finally stopped. And it was time for Marco to leave.

 

Oh, how Jean wished it rained forever.

 

The winds of change brought Jean back to the present. Like a pebble sending the first ripple through the calmness, he heard Marco speak next to him:

“I have something for you, Jean.”

Glancing down, he noticed something tucked in the palm of his hands. Jean gulped, and sat on his knees, so that he could be on Marco’s eye level.

Biting his lip, the wicca opened his palm - and revealed a blue flower, nestled against his palm like a cowering bird.

“Marco - what is that?”

“It’s a blue iris. It’s pretty rare to find them in this part of the world - they love running away from storms.” A soft, vibrant laugh, and then: “I want you to have it.”

Jean’s mouth fell open to say something, anything, but not a single word came out. Fear froze him: _this is farewell. He’s leaving for good_.

Marco took his silence for apprehension - and proceeded to tuck the blue flower behind Jean’s ear. Gently, he continued, “It’s a symbol for hope, y’know. Keep it, and-” He seemed to hesitate, his voice getting thick with emotion. “And remember me. Remember my words: if the worst luck can break you, then hope will heal you.”

Marco was smiling, but his eyes were damp. The flower sat happily behind Jean’s ear - yet the wicca refused to let his hand leave his jaw.

And as if he were guided by some strange force of nature, he could not help himself: he grabbed his wheelchair, pulled him close, and kissed him.

Surprisingly, Marco did not push away. In fact, he sighed, melting into one kiss, and then another, and then another. Jean hoped beyond hopes that this lasted forever. He prayed that Mother Nature heard his plea, and brought the rain back again - anything to keep Marco close. Anything to keep the warmth with him.

Alas, they had to pull away, ever so slowly. Jean kept his eyes shut. He was afraid Marco would vanish if he opened them. He was afraid he’d lose the one thing that made him feel human.

Warmth caressed his cheekbones, and a call of his name forced Jean to open his eyes. Fortunately, he was still there, his cheeks flushed pink, freckles scattered like stars on the night sky. The wicca stared at Jean deeply, as if he were his world.

After what felt like forever, Marco said, “I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”

Jean grabbed the hand holding his cheek, and kissed his palm softly. He took it all in one last time - the herbal scent, his warmth, his kindness, everything.

 

For once, he believed him.

 

When Marco left, the emptiness came back again. It was no surprise: warmth always left as soon as the sun disappeared.

But the flower was still there, in Jean’s palm. Vibrant, beautiful - alive.

The blue iris was still there. And so was hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm constantly trying new styles of writing and stepping outside my comfort zone - so let me know how I did! constructive criticism is much appreciated! <3


End file.
